It was Friday, and Claire was happy. The weekend was coming. She had plans to take the train to Bristol to see her dad and mum. It had been a while since she'd been home, and the thought of the salt sea air in the little village of Kewstoke cheered her immensely. Dad would meet her at the station in Bristol, and then they'd drive out on the A370, past small villages and towns along the way, until they arrived at the little stone house she'd grown up in, on Kewside. Mum would have a plate of Claire's favorite biscuits waiting—custard creams—and a big hug. Claire hugged herself with the thought. She couldn't wait for it all to begin. Problem was, she still had seven hours to go before she could return to her flat and pack.
She sighed and returned to her work. After another hour, Claire decided a cup of tea and a stale rich tea biscuit was better than staring at a computer screen and going cross-eyed over the code she was typing. She got up, preparatory to heading for the mess hall, to find herself facing the one person she'd been trying to avoid since earlier this week.
Standing in the doorway opposite her was the pale stranger.
He was dressed now, in a lab coat, with a blue shirt on under it, and dark trousers and shoes. At his white throat was a red bow tie. His hair was neatly combed over to the side, with the quiff still falling over his right eye. On the lab coat was one of U.N.I.T.'s badges. A lot seemed to have happened since Claire had last seen him, only a few days ago. He looked better (considering he still was white as a ghost and had odd skin to begin with) than he had lying on the hospital bed.
"First chance I had to move about on my own around here, I thought I'd better look for you," he stated, moving slowly towards her. Claire found she was rooted to the spot, unable to move. She had to remind herself to breathe. Why, she thought, does he affect me like this? Am I afraid of him?
As he got closer, she realized why—she was fearful of what seeing him did to her feelings. Claire could not account for why the sight of him gave her a strong sensation of attraction. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to get to know him. She wanted…oh, lots of things, and they all centered on him. Why, she thought, does he have this strange effect on me? He should scare me half to death—but instead, I can't bear the thought of not finding out just who he is.
He stopped about three feet from her, and tilted his head. "There is something you need to tell me, Claire Oswald." He crossed his arms. "Why?"
Oh my stars, Claire thought. This is why I didn't want to face him. How do I explain what I don't even understand myself?
She opened her mouth, a million thoughts running through her head, and none of them making sense or reason with regard to what he wanted to know—which was why she'd kissed him.
"I dunno," she finally blurted, plopping down on her chair as her legs gave from under her. "You…you just looked so sad…and so lonely…and so…"
"Pathetic?" he offered, with what Claire interpreted to be a look of disgust. "Was that done out of pity?"
"No-!" she yelped, surprising herself with her vitriol. "I didn't do that to pity you…I…I guess I did it because I wanted you to know that…that.."
"What?" he asked, his voice soft. He had no brows to speak of, but his forehead knit together with obvious puzzlement.
"That you mattered…to someone…" she murmured.
"But you don't even know me," he pursued.
She pulled her lower lip in, and looked down at her hands, which twisted in her lap. This was all so hard to explain, when she didn't even understand it herself. Lifting her eyes, she brought her gaze to his.
"Look," she stated, "I don't really get myself why I acted like I did. But I do know I would like to understand more about you; who you are, where you came from, why you're here, how you got here." Suddenly, Claire had a tiny insight into her odd feelings with regard to him. "I guess I just felt you could use a friend."
Her small confession seemed to change something in him. His body relaxed, and he put his hands in his lab coat pockets. He gave her a wry grin. "Seems like a rather forward offer of friendship. What do you do when you actually start dating someone?"
Claire gaped at him for a second, then realized he was teasing her. She laughed, all of the tenseness she'd been feeling previously leaving her body. She stopped laughing when she heard his soft follow up question.
"Did you really mean what you said about a friend?"
Looking into his face, she saw in those white eyes a plea for confirmation to his query. She sat up straight, and smiled.
"Yes." Rising to her feet, she held out her hand. "I was just going to take a break for tea…want to come along?"
He glanced down at her outstretched hand, then back at her shining eyes. A smile lifted one side of his lips. "Sure." Taking her hand, they walked out of the computer lab into the corridor, their joint destination being the mess hall. Walking next to him, she had an opportunity to realize how much taller he was than her; almost a foot, to be precise. His shoulders were broad and his torso and legs were long and slender. She kind of liked his build; it reminded her a little of the Doctor, who was also tall. It was nice to know as well that although his hand felt somewhat smooth, his skin was warm, and her hand fit pleasantly into his firm but gentle grip.
The fifteen minutes Claire had allotted to herself for tea break went by all too fast. However, in that short time she managed to find out a few things about this enigmatic stranger. He was from the future; the 22nd century, to be exact. He'd been a test subject for time travel, but it evidently had gone wrong—his return journey never took place, and he had blacked out from the effect of the transfer. He was now stuck in the 20th century.
U.N.I.T. had decided with his knowledge of chemistry to use him in their lab, since he had no other place to go. He knew other sciences, but chemistry seemed to be where they had the greatest need of his expertise.
The oddest part of the conversation actually came at the beginning, when Claire, pointing at the name printed on his U.N.I.T. badge, remarked that now she knew his name—Matthew Smith. "That's the name they've given me," he answered in an irritated voice.
"That isn't your real name?" she asked, feeling confused.
"No…I was assigned this name as the other name I would have taken was already being used by someone here," he replied, dipping his biscuit into his tea until it became quite soggy.
She shook her head, puzzled. "I don't understand."
He gave her an enigmatic look. "Someday…I'll explain. Just call me 'Matt' for now."